


Viva Las Vegas

by cirnelle



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: First Time, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 06:51:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7424383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cirnelle/pseuds/cirnelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens in Vegas...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Viva Las Vegas

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Viva Las Vegas (перевод)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7520701) by [BlueSunrise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSunrise/pseuds/BlueSunrise)



> For those of you reading solely in movie-‘verse, the villains of this piece are a group called T.H.R.U.S.H., the main antagonists from the TV series. You don’t have to know anything about them to read this, though!

 

 

Illya groaned muzzily as consciousness crept gradually upon him. He stifled a wince and determinedly kept his eyes tightly screwed shut. He had the absolute mother of all headaches.

Had T.H.R.U.S.H. gotten him? No, that was yesterday. He distinctly remembered himself and Napoleon being taken embarrassingly by surprise in the lobby of their Las Vegas hotel, tied up and brought to a cell in a T.H.R.U.S.H. explosives-manufacturing plant in the middle of the Mojave Desert some miles outside Las Vegas. That had been a stroke of luck, as they’d been looking for precisely that explosives-manufacturing plant. They’d escaped their cell, located the gear their captors had confiscated, and blown the whole place sky-high.

After trekking back into Las Vegas in the sweltering heat, they’d staggered back to their hotel room and Illya had sunk gratefully into the cool sheets of the bed while Napoleon had called in to Headquarters with their report. Mr. Waverly had been so pleased with their prompt completion of the mission that they hadn’t even had to explain that they’d only found the manufacturing plant so quickly because Napoleon had been distracted by a woman, Illya had been distracted by Napoleon, and T.H.R.U.S.H. had popped in and taken full advantage of the situation.

Well, it had all worked out in the end. Strangely enough though, he couldn’t seem to recall much of what had happened after their return to the hotel. Had T.H.R.U.S.H. rustled up a fresh batch of goons armed with amnesia darts to send after him and Napoleon? (Which he wouldn’t put past them, but really, shame on him if they’d gotten him twice in two days).

Eyes still tightly shut, Illya did a quick inventory, gingerly shifting his arms and legs. All body parts seemed intact, no pain except for the insistent pounding in his skull, and the ground he was lying on was flat and soft – not the softness of mud or dirt, but rather, it felt like...cloth? Soft silky cloth, smooth and cool along the entire length of his body...his eyes flew open abruptly.

_Why was he naked?!?_

The room was dim, the curtains drawn, which was fortunate as Illya was in absolutely no shape to face any kind of sunlight. Gingerly, he pushed himself up to a sitting position and, trying to move his head as little as possible, took a look around the room.

The room was very, very...pink. The walls were a light pastel pink, the sheets on the bed – silk, as he’d guessed – were a deeper shade of pink. The bed he was lying on was a four-poster, with delicate gauzy curtains draped from the top of each corner. The pillows were a deep, rich red…and they were heart-shaped. _Heart-shaped_. Illya eyed them in abject horror.

He was so busy staring at the velvet monstrosities masquerading as pillows that he barely noticed as the heap of blankets next to him twitched feebly. The blankets rippled as the other occupant of the bed shifted slightly and groaned. Illya started violently, then swore as his headache made its displeasure at the sudden movement known.

“My head,” Napoleon moaned pitifully from under the covers.

Illya reached over and twitched the blankets off his partner. Like him, Napoleon was completely nude, except for the garish feather boa twined about his shoulders – and was that a _bite mark_ on his neck? Illya squinted at it in fascination.

“Ooohh,” mumbled Napoleon, flinging an arm over his face. A glint of gold caught Illya’s eye, and he followed it to Napoleon’s finger. Napoleon’s _ring_ finger. There was a ring on Napoleon’s fourth finger, a simple, slim band of gold.

His gaze dropped slowly to his own hand, which was adorned with a matching gold band.

Dropping his head into his hands, Illya groaned as memories of the past evening started to return, interspersed with the insistent throbbing of his headache. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and attempted fervently to recall being dosed with a T.H.R.U.S.H. hallucinogenic drug sometime in the past twenty-four hours. No such luck.

He opened his eyes. Napoleon hadn’t moved. They were still sporting matching rings.

Sighing, Illya dropped his aching head back into his hands.

 

***

 

THE PREVIOUS NIGHT:

“Well, Mr. Waverly’s pleased that we completed the mission so quickly,” said Napoleon as he clicked his communicator off. “We’re to spend the night here, then fly back to New York tomorrow morning.”

“An evening off?” Illya’s eyebrows shot up. “How very generous of Mr. Waverly.”

“Not really.” Napoleon grinned. “The next flight back leaves tomorrow morning. D’you want to get a drink in the meantime?”

They took a leisurely stroll down Fremont Street, and as one drink turned into two, then three, they gave up on the pretense of individual drinks entirely and brought the bottles back to their hotel room.

Illya became increasingly aware of Napoleon’s eyes on him as the evening wore on, even as everything else began to get comfortably fuzzy around the edges. He put the bottle he was holding on the side table with exaggerated care and turned to ask Napoleon what he was staring at, but only got as far as opening his mouth before Napoleon’s lips were suddenly on his.

“Mmph – ” said Illya, flailing as he lost his balance and thumped back against the armrest of the couch. His arms went around Napoleon of their own volition as his partner clambered onto his lap, deepening the kiss, pressing their bodies together.

Illya’s brain took a few moments to catch up to this surprising but extremely welcome turn of events before he threw himself wholeheartedly into enthusiastic participation. He wrapped his arms tightly around Napoleon, trying to pull him closer, closer still; their teeth clacked together as he surged up against his partner, wanting more, losing himself in the taste of Napoleon, the feel of him. He’d wanted this for so long he barely knew where to begin; he couldn’t stop _touching_ Napoleon, running his hands over his arms, his back, curling his fingers in short dark hair.

Napoleon broke the kiss first, drawing back to gasp in a desperate breath, his lips swollen, cherry-red. His perfectly starched shirt, already halfway unbuttoned by Illya’s busy fingers, hung open. Illya kissed his way up that tempting expanse of skin, licking and sucking, and when he reached Napoleon’s neck, he _bit_ , wanting to mark that perfect skin, mark Napoleon as _his_.

Napoleon yelped, clutching at Illya, and they both rolled off the couch and landed on the carpeted floor in an undignified heap.

Nose-to-nose, they grinned drunkenly at each other, then clambered to their feet unsteadily, clinging to each other for balance.

“Bed?” said Napoleon.

“Bed,” agreed Illya.

 

***

 

Illya forced his eyes open with difficulty after his fourth (fifth? Sixth? He’d lost count) earth-shattering orgasm of the evening to find Napoleon grinning at him.

“I got’nn idea,” Napoleon slurred enthusiastically.

Illya thought that sounded ominous. He wanted to tell Napoleon so, but words of more than two syllables were eluding him at the moment. He nodded at Napoleon, then paused, confused, and shook his head instead.

“C’mon,” said Napoleon happily, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him towards the door of their hotel room.

Illya made an inquiring noise, which was mainly meant to convey that they weren’t wearing clothes, shouldn’t they be wearing clothes if they were going out, and why were they going out anyway, he had thoroughly enjoyed what Napoleon had done to him for the past two hours and he would really like to continue, could they please continue?

“Here,” said Napoleon, grabbing the blanket off the bed and wrapping Illya securely up in it. He paused, looked around the room vaguely, then pulled the sheets off the bed and wrapped them around his own nude body. “’S a Vegas tradd – ” he paused to think of the word – “tradition. You’ll _love_ it.”

Beaming at Illya, he grabbed his partner by the hand and dragged them both out the door.

 

***

 

BACK IN THE PRESENT:

After a couple of aspirin and a hot shower, Illya was feeling slightly more human. His headache had, for the most part, dissipated; the residual throb behind his temples came more from having his eyeballs assaulted by the extreme pinkness of what was most decidedly a honeymoon suite, than from the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed the previous night. Having found no trace of either his or Napoleon’s clothes in the room, he had, in sheer desperation, resorted to wearing one of the two fluffy pink bathrobes he’d found hanging in the closet after his shower.

Napoleon, having had two aspirin forced on him by Illya half an hour prior, seemed to have finally recovered enough to venture out of his protective cocoon of blankets. He was sitting up in bed, still nude, examining the gold band on his finger minutely. He turned it this way and that, poking at it thoughtfully.

Illya cleared his throat. “So you are telling me that we got _married_ last night? And this is some kind of... _tradition_?”

“Um,” said Napoleon. “Not really a _tradition_ , as such. It’s easy to get a marriage license here, so many couples come here for a quick wedding.” He waggled his fingers at Illya, the ring glinting. “You’ve just partaken of a little bit of American culture.”

Illya eyed him suspiciously. “But we are both men. We cannot marry _each other_.”

“Ah. Well,” said Napoleon. “To be completely honest, I’m not exactly sure how we managed to convince them to perform a marriage ceremony for the two of us.”

Illya vaguely remembered a lot of singing and cheering, and a _lot_ of champagne. He had a sneaking suspicion that the marriage officiant had been as drunk as he and Napoleon had been. Or maybe even _more_ drunk. He most certainly did not recall acquiring a marriage license of any kind.

“So we are not actually married,” he told Napoleon severely. “You are confusing me. And where did these rings come from?”

“It’s Las Vegas,” said Napoleon. “There are jewelry stores everywhere.”

Illya looked down at his ring, stared at Napoleon, then looked at his ring again.

“Don’t worry.” Napoleon winked at him. “This can be our little secret. Oh, and that bathrobe looks most becoming on you, by the way.”

Illya scowled.

“It’d look even more becoming on the floor,” said Napoleon hopefully.

And well, under normal circumstances, Illya would never have tolerated such a terrible line being used on him, and he would have told Napoleon so in no uncertain terms...except that Napoleon was looking at him with just a touch of uneasiness, as if unsure of his reception when they were both stone-cold sober, and that just _wouldn’t do_.

Illya’s scowl eased by a fraction of a degree. Napoleon, who had become rather well-versed in reading the nuances of his partner’s expressions by this point, took this for the invitation that it was, and, smiling, leaned over for a kiss.

The bathrobe ended up on the floor after all. _Even the feather boa from last night came in useful,_ thought Illya, eyeing his handiwork with deep satisfaction. Napoleon, hands securely tied to the ornate metal headboard with the boa, squirmed on the bed under Illya’s appreciative gaze.

“ _Illya_ ,” he whined plaintively. “ _Do_ something.”

“Oh, I plan to,” said Illya, leaning down to nip at Napoleon’s neck. “After all, we must celebrate our honeymoon properly, yes?”

 

***

 

EPILOGUE:

Even after they’d gotten back to New York, Illya continued wearing the ring. After all, why not? Most people in U.N.C.L.E. knew that he wasn’t married, but they mostly seemed to assume that he was wearing the ring as some kind of cover for a mission, and nobody asked him any questions about it. The perks of being a field agent, he supposed. And if he felt a little sentimental about it, as if he were carrying a little part of Napoleon around with him, well, nobody had to know.

Napoleon’s ring was, of course, nowhere to be seen, but Illya hadn’t expected otherwise. They were not, after all, _actually_ married. Also, the appearance of a ring on Napoleon’s finger would most likely send the women at U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters into paroxysms of despair.

Separate missions meant that he didn’t see Napoleon for almost a week after their return from Las Vegas. The next time he saw Napoleon was on a Friday night, right after he’d returned from his solo mission. It had been a long trip back, and Illya was in the process of taking a much-needed hot shower when Napoleon let himself into Illya’s apartment, yanked the shower curtain back and blithely stuck his head into the shower to say hi.

Illya, unused to people just wandering into his shower, almost punched him reflexively. Napoleon nimbly dodged the punch and grinned at Illya, leaning in for a kiss. “Hello to you too.”

Napoleon was still dressed in his suit, briefcase in one hand. He looked tired, dark circles under his eyes. Just back from his mission as well, then. From the looks of it, he’d forgone a trip back to his own apartment and come straight to Illya’s.

Illya pushed the shower curtain back fully in silent invitation. Tossing his briefcase on the floor, Napoleon efficiently stripped his suit off and began to unbutton his shirt. Illya reached out to help, but his attention was arrested by the glint of gold at Napoleon’s chest as Napoleon undid the buttons. On a slim chain around Napoleon’s neck, resting just over his heart, hung the ring from Las Vegas. Illya froze, momentarily speechless.

Napoleon looked up in surprise. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” said Illya gruffly, reaching out to pull his partner into the shower with him, heedless of Napoleon’s protests ( _“ – wait, Illya, I still have my pants on, and my **shoes** – ”_ ). He kissed Napoleon hard.

"Welcome home.”

 

 

– End –

 

 

 


End file.
